


Drabble Collection: Teufort Nine

by Oddport



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Family Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, Not Really Character Death, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-04-23 22:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 12,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4895425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oddport/pseuds/Oddport
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My general drabble collection. Any pairings are secondary to the main story, pre-relationship, or are just there if you squint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Faire La Bise

“Scout, it’s just a cultural thing.” Engineer chuckled as he worked on the dispenser in front of him. While they hadn’t known each other long, the Texan had taken a shine to the kid, and part of his job as the more experienced mercenary meant helping to ensure the Bostonian learned to work well with his international teammates.

“I know it can be a bit off-putting if you’re not used to it, but it’s just like the Japanese bowin’ or a good ol’ fashioned handshake.”

Scout hopped off the bench, shoved his hands in his pockets and let out a huff. “That’s fine and all. But did he have to use tongue?”


	2. With Respect to Robbie Burns

Demo set the plate down in front of Scout, who wrinked his nose at the sight.

“This is haggis? It looks like a slug screwed a sausage…”

“An’ nae worse than those hot dogs yer always shovin’ down yer gob.” Demo fished a bottle of Scotch out from his personal liquor storage along with a pair of glasses. He poured a dram for himself and a second for Scout. The quality of Talisker would probably be lost on the boy, but he had given up a rare night off so the Scotsman wouldn’t be celebrating alone.

Handing the glass to Scout, Demo raised his own in toast with Scout following suit.

“Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the puddin-race!*”

—————————-

* The opening line to Address to a Haggis by Robert Burns. It’s often recited at a Burns’ Night dinner when the haggis is brought out. I like the idea of Demo being all into some Burns’ Night celebrations.


	3. Star and Fire Light

There was a peace to the nights in the New Mexican desert. Miles from the nearest city, the Milky Way shone across the sky with such majesty that it could even make Texas feel small. Engineer leaned back against the cab of the blue Chevy and started picking out the constellations that he had picked up as a boy spending summer nights camping with his old man and granddad.

Ursa Major, easy one. His eyes found the familiar starting spot quickly and once he was oriented, the rest of the sky burst in to all its celestial life. Bootes and Virgo followed a few moments later by the dimly lit Cancer peeking out between Hydra and Leo.

A soft thud from the end of the truck bed brought the Texan back to earth. The warm light of the small campfire reflected off of two black hole eyes as Pyro joined him, fussing for a moment before settling down, a long stick with a small flame, clutched tightly in one hand.

Engineer chuckled as he watched the firebug’s head focus on that tiny fire as much as he had been on the constellations just a moment before. “Pyro, you ain’t ever gonna experience a proper s'more if you keep letting your marshmallow turn to carbon like that.”

Pyro made a happy noise. They would be happy either way.


	4. It's a Pee Prompt

Sniper was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to be that color.

And that was what led a blurry-eyed Medic to be roused out of bed at an ungodly hour of the morning, much to his annoyance.

The Australian had, at least, had the decency to look sheepish.

“It is not unusual for urine to vary in its coloration,” Medic stifled a yawn, “and given the rather insane limits you push your kidneys, I would hardly think that this would be a concern.”

“I bloody well know that!” Sniper snapped, a little louder than he had intended for the early hour, “But it’s still not supposed to be red!”

“Who at door? Tell go away. Is too early for work, lyubovnik.”

“ _Einen moment, Schatz_. Medic called back over his shoulder before turning back to Sniper, whose face had taken on a distinctly redder hue. “ _Herr_ Sniper, have you been needing to urinate more often than normal?”

“No.”

“Any burning, or discomfort while urinating, or has there been an unusually strong odor?”

“Nah.”

“Then I would recommend indulging in less of Engineer’s rhubarb pie.” Medic sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The pigments can affect urine color.”

A look of relief came over the bushman’s face. “That’s it?”

“ _Ja_ , that’s it.”

“You’re serious. Not pullin’ my leg?”

“ _Nein_. No leg pulling.”

“I mean, I know I put down over half of the thing, but…”

A large shadow filled the door, and a large hand wrapped around Medic’s waist, pulling him back out of the door.

“Doktor’s office closed.”


	5. Sorry Spirits

Heavy reached forward and gingerly plucked the bottle from the table before sitting himself down on the bench. A sigh escaped as he saw that it was nearly empty, and he set it back down. It was a good bottle. He would have to hide it better next time.

Next to him on the bench was the reason he was there. Scout’s head lay against the the table, hand wrapped around a shot glass that had probably been lifted from Demo after procuring the drink.

“Little Scout is not vodka drinker.”

“Whaddya mean? I’m the beshtest drinkah eveah.” Scout lifted his head and squinted at Heavy in the harsh light of the kitchen. “I… I can take both you and yah brothah.” Heavy looked over his shoulder just in case perhaps Medic had followed him in, then just shook his head. Scout looked like he was trying to stare down the Russian but with his ball cap sitting crookedly on his head, the overall effect was more of a pout.

It had been a hard day for RED. Somewhat freakishly for Teufort, it had been pouring rain all day leading to chaos on the field. BLU’s position has been higher, not enough to matter on most days, but the added wetness had thrown an unpleasant variable against RED. Particularly for those on the team who relied on speed and visibility, and the Bostonian had found himself face down in the desert mud more than once. The dispenser healed up the physical bruises, but it didn’t do too much for wounded pride.

Heavy placed a giant hand gently on Scout’s shoulder. “Good vodka is for sipping with friends. Next time we beat BLU, I will show you.”

Scout’s lip trembled a little and he let his head drop forward against the larger man, forehead resting against one massive bicep. “Thanks, man.” Scout’s voice sounded younger than his 23 years. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Ah, _da_ ….” Heavy pushed Scout back up and there was a distinctly green pallor starting to appear across his face. “We go find Medic. Demo gave him much practice at getting rid of hangover.” Scooping Scout up his arms, Heavy stepped out into the hall and headed for the Infirmary.

A bit of a quick-fix, some water, a good night’s sleep and a forecast for better weather to come. Tomorrow would be a good day.


	6. Reporting for Duty

Jane Doe stared down at the message held tightly in his hands.

He knew that it had only been a matter of time before the Enemies of the State found his location. The enclave of German resistance had been unexpected this long after their “formal surrender” in 1949, but the celebration of “October Festival” in that Californian town was enough to prove that his old foes still plotted their nefarious schemes. Oh they certainly had their clever disguises - little old ladies and men in those ridiculous little short pants and stupid hats - but by the end, he’d had them begging for the sweet release of death.

If only local law enforcement had been as skilled in counter-espionage tactics.

After the second squad car of woefully deceived officers, Jane had decided to strategically withdraw and take up an intelligence position in Bob’s Moto-Lodge until he was able to locate the heart of the plotter’s sinister schemes. After four days of unsuccessful surveillance, he had thought it best to regroup and requisition fresh supplies.

So he ordered Chinese. The most American of foods.

The delivery man was at the door within minutes, and Jane shoved the cash under the door as he looked through the peep hole. With no respect towards authority, the delivery man had rolled his eyes, shoulders dropping in an exaggerated sigh before leaving the bag of food on the ground outside. Once he had established that the perimeter was secure, he had retrieved the supplies and dug in.

It was in the delectable fortune cookie that the message had been concealed by an unknown ally.

_Your life is in danger. Say nothing to anyone. You must leave the city immediately and never return. Turn over._

Jane turned the slip of paper over.

_Rendezvous point: Teufort, NM. Your lucky numbers are 16, 24, 8 and 35._

He grinned. Duty called.

 

* * *

 

Across the street, the Chinese delivery man leaned up against a purple scooter as he took a long drag on his cigarette. He watched the American throw his pack on and take off down the street, canteen banging against the shotgun that had been lashed to the back.

“ _Mon dieu, quel idiot_.”

“ _Spy?_ ”

The radio concealed in the chow mein scratched into life. He pulled it out, gingerly removing a few noodles before bringing it up to his ear.

“He’s on his way.”

“ _Good to hear. Head on back to base. I’ll take care of rest once he gets to New Mexico_.”

“Miss Pauling.”

“ _Yes, Spy?_ ”

“He left on foot.”

 _“That… was expected_.”

“Pardon?”

“ _Mr. Doe has, well, let’s just call it a unique psych profile_.” Static crackled as Spy adjusted the frequency. “ _Medic anticipates that he’ll probably pass out from exhaustion in about two hours. He and Engineer will pick him up then and drive him the rest of the way_.”

“By ‘unique psych profile,’ do you mean brain damaged or insane?” There was a pause, and he could see the Administrator’s assistant shrugging in his mind.

“ _What other kind of man are you going to get to ride a rocket launcher?_ ”


	7. Old Wounds Special

“For the record, I was against hirin’ your crazy ass.”

Crazy. He was familiar with the word. It was the mud slung against all genius when facing those of small minds and vision.

_Verrückt._

_Wahnsinnig._

_Übergeschnappt._

_Verdreht._

He had worn the word in its many forms for decades, letting them worm their way into his very soul. And over the years, as he had gazed deep within him, deep within the dark place from whence his grandest designs had sprung…

And found freedom.

“That means we wanted him DEAD, you useless kraut $@#$%!”

Death. What did the old fool know of death other than the fear that was so obvious in that aging shell? Death was something to conquer; something he had conquered, time and time again, gaining ground each time. He had made a man bulletproof and turned him into the pure fury of battle! He laughed at death and its feeble attempts to constrain him to his own mortality.

“Let’s get this straight, Frankenstein. You’re on OUR payroll.”

Money. That’s what it always came down to with these petty minds. The almighty dollar that  they all fought so desperately to attain, that was their goal. Once they had it, the game was over, and they would be left resting on their hordes like an old wyrm waiting for the end.

For him, their filthy lucre was just beginning. Yes, he needed it, but what he was accomplishing was so much MORE. The Bushman had been dead - DEAD. Not respawned, not revived, but brought back from the dead!

He was as a god.

“And from now on, you’re going to do what you’re told.”

The Medi-Gun lay broken on the ground, the old fool refusing help that he so desperately would need. Flush off of a single victory, he seemed to have deluded himself into believing that his husk of a team would be able to defeat his former RED teammates.

They weren’t even able to kill a man beyond his reach.

They were the past.

They had no future.

“Coo.”

“Yes, Archimedes…”

Medic reattached the Medi-Gun’s hose and picked up his bone saw, it’s blade reflecting the fury of genius scorned.  

“… I couldn’t agree more.”


	8. Showdown

“I wondered when you’d have the guts to show your face. Beginnin’ to think…” Heavy took one last puff of his cigar before grinding it out under his boot, “…that you were a little scared of me.”

Misha snorted.

The two heavy weapons men stood facing each other across the open field. Despite their mutual specialty, both men stood unarmed. Sasha lay at Misha’s feet, and the assault cannon that Heavy had carried for nearly three decades rested nearby, slowly spinning down after spending its last slug. Behind Misha was Medic, Medi-Gun in hand and murder in his eyes. The Russian could feel the familiar warmth of Overheal spread across his back and sinking into his muscles.

“Chatty one, aren’t you?”

“Is nothing to say.” Misha shrugged off his bandolier and let it drop next to Sasha.

The older mercenary let out a harsh laugh. “Well, at least you bothered showing up. Even if you did need to bring your wet nurse along for company.”

Misha heard the Medic’s gloves clenching over the handle of Medi-Gun and held his hand, palm out, behind him; a silent order of stillness that the doctor obeyed. “I am fully charged.” Medic’s words were soft but uttered through gritted teeth.

“Gonna use Frankenstein’s little toy, huh? Guess you’re not as confident about beating me as I thought.” Heavy taunted as he cracked his knuckles, readying himself for a fight.

“No.” Misha growled. “That is not why I am here.”

Heavy’s eyebrow raised, amused. “Is that right? If you ain’t here to beat me, what are you here for?”

“First you hurt my friends.”

Drawing himself to his full height, Misha stared down the older man.

“Then you hurt my family.”

The image of Zhanna’s bloodied arm was burned into his memory.

“I am not here to beat you.”

The Overheal surged into the fire of the ÜberCharge, his vision tinged red and Misha roared as he lunged forward.

“I am here to BREAK you!”


	9. Mama's Boy

“So, it’s a good job, but I’m gonna have to move across country for it.”

“Really?” He could hear the skepticism in her voice.

“Yeah. It’s legit work.”

“Legit, huh?” She turned around and looked at her son. He was sitting at kitchenette in their apartment, fiddling with the asparagus on his plate. “Last time of you boys told me there was ‘legit’ work I wound up having to come up with bail money.”

He sighed dramatically and pointed to the thick envelope in front of him. “Look, Ma, it’s nothing sketchy. They’ve got contracts and everything. I’m gonna get paid regular, and they already got stuff in order to make sure some of it comes back every month. No mob guy is going to put this much in writing.”

“Scoot, if you’re just doing this for the money…”

“Ma…”

“I know I don’t make that much, but we’ve always gotten by.”

“But you shouldn’t have to! You deserve better than this, Ma.”

He stared at her with those big blue eyes that always reminded her of his dad. All she could see was that little boy who loved to chase after his big brothers. They’d all gone now. Two were in prison after falling in with the wrong type of 'businessmen, three did odd jobs here and there, but nothing that ever stuck. One got out of their dirty little neighborhood after finding a rich lady on the Hill who didn’t mind taking care of him and one had simply disappeared. That just left her with her baby. Her little Scoot who always wanted to do right by his ma.

And here he was, all grown up.

Outside the sounds of sirens filled the air, and the Mallory’s downstairs were at it again. Mother and son stared at each other with neither wanting to say a word. He’d never left Boston. What was he going to do on the other side of the damn country?

“It’ll be okay, Ma.” He finally broke the silence and picked up the envelope with that five year contract that was taking him away from her. “You took care of me all my life. I wanna chance to help take care of you.”


	10. Bedtime Reading

She gasped as Vladimer’s shirt fell to the floor, his body naked and glistening with perspiration in the soft candle light. His chest rose and fell from the climb into her room, his burgeoning manhood beneath his trousers showing his desire for her. No words escaped her lips as he approached her bed and her silken nightgown suddenly felt hot and oppressive against her skin.

“My Natalia,” Vladimir’s voice was filled with desire, “you waited for me.”

“Always.” She whispered back as he lay himself next to her. “I may be promised to another, but my heart will always belong to you.”

A strong hand cupped her cheek as he drew her in for a kiss that spoke of passion. “If only I were not a mere woodsman…”

“Don’t say that!” she whispered fiercely. “You are worth a hundred of those foppish aristocrats. They know nothing of love, only of wealth. The only desire they feel is to line their coffers with gold.” Tears pooled in her eyes as Vladimir pulled her close enough that she could feel his heartbeat. “If it were not for my poor widowed mother, I would gladly join you in the forest and be happier than the Czarina.” Natalia struggled to hold back the tears. Papa would have loved Vladimir, so different from Count Illovich in every way. Strong arms were a comfort now, but in the morning she would be wed to another, forever separated from the man she loved.

Vladimir’s large hands slowly traced the line of her back as he kissed the tears away. “Let me give you tonight, my dove.”

“Please, but…” She hesitated for a brief moment, “Please be gentle, I am still a maiden.” He nodded, deep brown eyes full of love.

“Of course.”

The leather trousers joined the shirt in a rumpled pile on the floor and Natalia felt the heat of Vladimir’s passion. Her breath hitched as one of those wonderful laborer’s hands cupped one of her pert breasts and caressed it, his thumb rubbing against the small bud that hardened under his attention. A voice that she barely recognized as her own moaned, only to be silenced by a kiss.

“Discretion, my dove. Your uncle is in the next room.” His whisper was hot against her ear, and at that moment Natalia wanted nothing more than to shout her lover’s name from the highest tower. But Vladimir was right, and she bit her lip to keep quiet. She watched him straddle her slim waist, his manhood close to her mound, which was wet with her desire…

“Sister!”

The sudden banging snapped Zhanna out of her book and her hand jerked away from where it had been slowly rubbing herself through her nightgown.

“Zhanna! Are you awake?” Yana called through the door.

“Of course I am. I have a brat banging on my door in the middle of the night!”

“You don’t need to be nasty about it.” She could almost see the pout on Yana’s face. “Mama wants you to get more firewood.”

“And you cannot do it, why?”

“Misha is coming home, that’s why. I’m airing out his room” Zhanna rolled her eyes at the excuse.

“It’s ten o'clock!” She growled as she got off the bed. She knew she would wind up getting the firewood eventually. Baby Yana usually got her way. It would forever be a mystery to Zhanna how Yana could wrestle down bears, break men in two, but still be an utter child when it came to the dark. “Fine, I’ll go. But you have dishes tomorrow!”

“Thank you, Zhanna!” Light footsteps danced down the hall as Zhanna got dressed, muttering under her breath and hoping the flush that she still felt in her cheeks would fade before she ran across her mother or sisters. Just before walking out of the room, Zhanna picked up the book and shoved it under her pillow.

Burning Hearts of Passion would have to wait for another time.


	11. Breakfast at Teufort

Saturdays were Engineer’s day to make breakfast. And that meant that Scout only had one reason to get up earlier than noon on the weekend, because when Engie was cooking, you got up with the cows, or you were on your own. It wasn’t all bad, though. If one member of BLU knew their way around a kitchen, it was him.

Scout could almost taste the sausage and griddle cakes now.

Oddly enough the smell of sausage and griddle cakes, an Engineer staple, was completely absent in the hall leading towards the kitchen. There was a buttery scent in its place along with brewing coffee. He could hear the clanging of pans and the shuffling of plates, though. Engie must have overslept or something.

“Hey, Engie! What’s cooking?” Scout slid into the kitchen, nearly knocking right into the Texan and the loaded plate that he’d been carrying. “I’m starving!”

“Tryin’ somethin’ a little different today.” Engineer rebalanced himself and set the platter in the middle of the table.

Scout looked at the spread in front of him. The plate that had just been set down was stacked with large croissants, just out of the oven. Instead of the normal bacon, eggs and home fries, there was a selection of jams, preserves and sliced fruit.

“Engie,” Scout wrinkled his nose and gestured in the general direction of the table, “what the hell is this?”

Engineer snorted and crossed his arms. “Breakfast. Like I said, somethin’ a little different. Won’t kill anyone here to get little variety.”

“This ain’t breakfast. I know breakfast. That’s, like, real food. This is all… Frog stuff.”

“Tarnation, Scout! It’s breakfast that you didn’t have to get up at 5 in the damn mornin’ to make.”

It was hard to see with the Texan’s farmer tan, but Scout saw a little flush creeping across the shaved head. “Oh, I get it.” The red creeped further up. Theory confirmed. “I know you got that crush on him. That’s what this is, isn’t it?”

“What a man says to a man over a beer is said in confidence, Scout.” The soft drawl took on a hard edge. “It would be a good idea to keep that in mind.”

Scout grinned and poked back harder. “You must got it baaaad.”

“Or perhaps he was simply making a kind gesture to a colleague who is stranded in this wasteland for the next five years.” Scout and Engineer looked over to see Spy seated at the end of the table, slowly stirring his freshly poured coffee. “I’ll admit to having been a tad morose as of late. Engineer, a caring friend, has simply brought a little of my home to me. Merci, mon ami.” He added, raising his coffee in Engineer’s direction.

“Uh, yer welcome.”

Scout rolled his eyes. “Yeah, this whole froggy breakfast is just ‘cause Engie is feeling nice.”

“And that attitude is why I will assume your relationships will extend as far as your subscription to the Monthly Bunny Gentlemen’s Magazine.”

It was Scout’s time to clench his teeth. “You got no idea what kind of game I got back home, Frenchie.”

Spy seemed more preoccupied with the croissant that he was currently smothering with a lovely blueberry preserve. “I wish you, your left hand and and your magazine a long and happy life together. Who was June? Sonya? Lovely girl. May her best pages never stick together and you have many beautiful paper doll children together. _Mazel tov_!”

“Screw you, Spy.” Scout gave Spy a glare as he pushed back from the table and headed out the door before popping back in a moment later to grab one of the hot, buttery croissants and shoving it in his mouth. “Pheriouthly, thquew yhou.”

The two older men just stared at the doorway as Scout stormed off, and then at each other. “So, you must explain to me what it means to have a ‘crush’ on someone.” Spy smiled as the blush returned to the Texan’s face.

Oh, he knew. But that drawl was so adorable when stammering.

“The croissants are delicious, by the way.”


	12. Angel of Death

Sniper was struck by silence.

It should have sounded like he was on battlefield. He WAS on a battlefield. But all he heard was the muffled sounds of explosions and gunshots a million miles away. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but his body refused to cooperate. He leaned back against the wall of the compound and tried to remember what had happened.

RED and been pushing BLU back from their pont all morning. The New Mexican heat had been rough, even by Australian standards, and he’d finally been forced out his nest to find water before he passed out from dehydration and heat stroke.

And now here he was, flat on arse.

AH, THERE YOU ARE.

A soft blue light filled his vision, and he braced himself for a fatal blow from some BLU ÜberCharged drongo. At least then he’d hit respawn.

“Get to it.” He just wanted this over with.

HAPPILY. BUT I WILL NEED YOU TO GET UP FIRST.

There was something odd about the voice. Sniper couldn’t pin it to anyone on BLU. Opening his eyes, he came face to face with the single most bizarre sight he’d seen since coming to Teufort.

Medic, RED’s Medic, was there hovering over him. Hovering? He had on that odd bird mask and hat he’d found for the team’s last fancy dress. Tilting his head, Sniper couldn’t help but be reminded of the birds that the doc kept in the surgery.

“Medic, mate, you’re welcome to make with the healing any time.”

The mask tilted the other direction, and black hobnail boots soundlessly touched down. The doctor looked at his hands for a moment before looking down, picking at the edges of his long coat.

MEDIC… I DO HAVE TO COMPLEMENT YOU ON YOUR INTERESTING SELECTION OF FORM. USUALLY IT’S SOMEONE’S MOTHER, HUSBAND, OR MAYBE A CHILD IF THINGS ARE PARTICULARLY TRAGIC. I DON’T GET SUCH A DELIGHTFUL COSTUME VERY OFTEN.

Sniper frowned. “If this is some sort of joke, it ain’t the time or the place.” Medic’s eccentricity was irritating but generally benign, but at the moment the doc didn’t know how lucky he was that Sniper’s arms were currently on holiday.

OH, WAIT. Medic crouched down, reaching out and taking Sniper’s hand in his own. I SEE. YOU HAVEN’T REALIZED YOUR SITUATION, HAVE YOU?

A chill ran up Sniper’s arm from the touch.

YOU’RE DEAD.

“Dead?”

YES. AND I’M HERE TO HELP YOU TO THE OTHER SIDE.

The Medic pulled back without releasing his grip from the assassin’s wrist. Sniper’s eyes widened in horror as he saw a softly glowing translucent copy of his own arm gliding out behind.

“No, wait!” He tried to pull back, but the masked Medic simply continued drawing him further out. “Respawn, it’s gonna kick in any second.”

A smile showed under the Medic’s mask. Not the manic grin of a mad scientist; this smile was gentle and a bit sad. I’M AFRAID WE REALLY DO HAVE TO GO.

His heart should have been racing a mile a minute, but Sniper was suddenly aware that he felt nothing in his chest. No heartbeat, no rapid breathing…

No respawn.

IT’S ALRIGHT. YOU’LL FIND PEACE SOON.

As the Medic continued to draw back and Sniper watched as he was slowly stripped out of his body. The initial chill that had gripped him at that first touch dissipated, slowly being replaced by a feeling that was a mixture of warmth and calm. A pair of large white wings unfurled from the being in front of him, leaving no doubt as to its nature.

Suddenly the warmth burst into fire. The Medic’s hand jerked away as if it had been burned, and Sniper felt himself being yanked backwards, blinded by a bright white light.

“Engineer, I found him! Get the teleporter!”

“Goin’ down. Tarnation, he looks like hell.”

His eyes slowly opened to see Medic, the real Medic, kneeling in front of him, Medi-Gun nozzle aimed at a gaping shrapnel wound on his side. The doctor’s face was grim as he kept the red mist focused on the wound. “I need him in surgery to get the rest of this out.”

“Of all the days for respawn to fail.” Sniper felt himself hoisted up by the Texan and heard the whirring of the teleporter.

I SUPPOSE WE’LL MEET AGAIN SOMEDAY.

Sniper felt the words more than heard them as he and Engineer stepped into space.

There was no threat. Death would eventually come to him, as it would to all. And next time, he would be ready.


	13. A Snowball's Chance

Scout’s foot tapped against the floor with unspent nervous energy. It had been almost a week since the last skirmish between RED and BLU, both sides frozen in by the unrelenting Coldfort winter.

And he was goin’ nuts.

Yesterday he’d managed the spectacular achievement of getting himself run out of Medic’s surgery, Engie’s workshop, and literally kicked out of Heavy’s work space after seeing just how far you could push that “no one touches Sasha” rule.

The answer was Heavy’s XXXX wide boot to his ass.

He’d tried to burn off some energy in the gym, but pumpin’ iron just wasn’t the same without someone to be impressed by it. Droppin’ the dumbbells on the mat, he tried a few spins around the ring just to stretch his legs, but it just wan’t enough to scratch the itch to get out and really move.

Grabbin’ his towel, Scout stomped back to his room. On his way back, he happened to look out one of the windows in the hall. A spot of red caught his eye.

RED’s compound had a central courtyard and the tall wall shielded it from the worst of Coldfort’s wind. In the middle was Pyro, bundled up in their winter cap and scarf, pushing a snowball along into a snowman. The little ball gathered more and more snow until Pyro was shovin’ it along to finally sit next to another snowman that was already sittin’ near the back wall of Medic’s lab.

Well, well, well. Looked like it was time for Scout to get out and play.

He dashed down the hall, headin’ for the equipment room. This was gonna be glorious!

Turnin’ the corner, he only just managed to skid out of the way of Demo, grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him to a stop.

“An just where might ye runnin’ to in such a hurry?”

Scout squirmed, rollin’ his shoulder to get out of Demo’s grip.

“Just gonna go have a little fun with Mumbles. We’re all snowed in, so might as well enjoy ourselves, ya know?” He swung around casually as the Scot eyed him with… his eye.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Some of us are still sober enough to remember bein’ kids. See ya, Cyclops!”

Probably not his smartest idea, pokin’ Demo like that. But he needed to move if he wanted to get the drop on Pyro.

 

* * *

 

Boston was cold. Boston had snow. And Scout was pretty sure wherever it was Pyro was from couldn’t have prepared him for the snowball beatin’ they were about to receive.

Nope, no way, no how.

The door from the kitchen wasn’t too creaky, and Scout had slipped out to see Pyro stickin’ one last snowball on the top of the second snowman they were makin’. They stood there for a minute, head tiltin’ this way and that, lookin’ at the snowman like they were Picasso or somethin’.

Scout scooped a handful of snow and started packin’ it in his gloves. Nice and wet, the good stuff. Boy, this was gonna sting!

The snow under his feet crunched as he sneaked forward, workin’ that perfect snowball between his fingers like he was gonna toss the opener at Fenway.

**VOOMP! VOOMP! VOOMP! VOOMP!**

Uh-oh…

**FABOOM!**

Everything went white, and the next think he knew, Scout was starin’ up at two glassy black eyes. “Hudda?”

“An’ some of us are old enough to ken how to use low-grade explosives, ye wee bampot!”


	14. The Shed

It was just a little shed, lost among the maze of buildings that was the madly intertwined RED and BLU compounds. Nondescript, no one could have told you what it was for if you'd asked. They would have been more surprised that it was there.

Just a little shed.

No purpose.

No use.

So it was perfect.

They had found it after the day's fighting was over. The humiliation round done, and they were walking back to base when it caught their eye. They had never noticed it before and were simply curious. What they found was an empty room, no windows, a door and a little hole in the roof.

It was quiet.

The base was never quiet.

They liked quiet sometimes.

And it was a perfect place for the fire.

They brought in some rocks and borrowed Soldier’s shovel (Please don’t tell!) to make a lovely new home for the fire. No one else seemed to like it when they brought the out into the common room. Or the kitchen. Or the respawn room. But it would be happy here.

After a day, they noticed that the shed was nice but very brown, which was a shame because the fire always danced around and really needed a nicer stage. So they decorated the shed with the paints that Engineer had given them last Smissmass.

It was very pretty.

Baloonicorn ran up a rainbow that led to the Peppermint Castle where Crown Princess Heavy Anastasia lived with the Pretty Pony Spy. They stepped back and were quite pleased. It was a much better place for the fire.

It was their own special place to be with the flames.

Even when it was raining, like today.

They had decided that they needed an Engiebee to take care of the flowers near the castle, and happily painted away. Then they heard a sound.

There was another one, BLU, standing at the door to their shed. They looked at the pretty castle. They looked at the fire. They looked at Baloonicorn and its friends. Then they looked back at them with their own black eyes.

And they made a happy sound.

“Hudda!”

It was a lovely little shed. Perfect to share a fire.


	15. Questions

_Ding-ding!_

“Well, hello again!”

Jim shot her his best smile as the Purple Lady walked through the door for the third time that week. She plucked a basket from next to the register and gave him a little wave before disappearing into aisle 4.

Garbage bags and household cleaners.

He waited behind the counter for a minute or two before meandering out, nudging the boxes of Wheaty-O’s together and trying not to look too interested. Down the aisle she was kneeling down and looked to be contemplating between picking up the Flexo or Trusty brand of one-gallon bags. Finally, she set the Trusty box back on the shelf and placed the Flexos in the basket before getting up and pushing her glasses back up. On her way to the register she grabbed a gallon of bleach and a can of air freshener.

“Must be doing some heavy duty cleaning.”

She avoided his eyes as her fingers hovered over a Choco-Lot candy bar.

“This is the third gallon of bleach this week.”

Grabbing the candy bar, she glanced up with a smile. “Yeah! Yeah. I, uh, do a lot of buying for my job. Third gallon this week! I guess that is a lot.”

Jim smiled back and took the basket from her before walking back behind the counter. “Hopefully your boss isn’t making you do all the work!” He started ringing in the items. “A pretty lady like you shouldn’t be ruining her hands with that sort of thing.”

The Purple Lady laughed a little at that.

He packed the items into a bag. “Would you like me to take these to your car?” 

“No thanks.” She took the bag in her arms and headed toward the door. “Thank you, though.” 

She walked out, the bell over the door ringing behind her. Outside, he watched her pack her purchases on to the back of a purple moped. Strapping her helmet on, she started the motor and drove off down the road.

Three days passed and the Purple Lady hadn’t come back. Jim wondered about her and where she was. It was a small town, but he never ran into her when he wasn’t at the store. He had mentioned her to Cindy at the diner, and she recalled seeing her, but couldn’t tell him anything that he didn’t already know. Steve at the gas station recalled her filling up her moped once or twice.

Two days later she came back. “More cleaning?” He asked as she picked up a basket.

“You could say that.” She wandered towards aisle 9.

Hardware.

He followed her back. “Sandpaper?”

She looked over, as if she were surprised to see him there. “Uh, yeah.” She tossed a pack into the basket. “Got some… Sanding to do.”

“Woodworking?”

“Restoration.” She responded before walking to the other end of the aisle and turned right into aisle 10.

Lawn Supplies.

He looked around the shelf and saw her looking over hedge clippers. “And gardening?”

A finger came up to push her glasses up. “The place is a work in progress.”

Jim waited until she had picked up a heavy duty pair of clippers and started back to the front. He fell into step beside her and started to ring everything up.

“This still your job?” 

“Yup.” 

“You all ought to hire a handyman.”

“We actually do have an engineer on staff.” 

“Let me carry that out for you.”

She moved to pick up the bag. “It’s okay, I have it.”

“I insist.”

The Purple Lady tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before shrugging her shoulders. “Alright.” 

He followed her out to her moped and placed the bag in the crate she had strapped to the back. “So, uh…” She looked over as she strapped on her helmet. “What’s your name?”

“Pauling.” The word was as crisp as the lines in her blouse. 

“Jim.” 

“Thank you, Jim.”

“Do you work around here?” He blurted out. She didn’t answer. “I mean, I never see you around town. That boss of yours can’t have you working all the time.”

“You’d be surprised

“How about the first part of that question?”

“My employer is… private.”

“Private?”

She straddled the moped and started the motor. “Private. As in doesn’t like me talking about my employment.”

He gave her a crooked grin. “Sounds pretty cloak and dagger.”

“It’s not so interesting.”

“So you want to discuss it? Maybe over dinner?”

She gave him an odd look.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“You make me want to find out answers.”

He was surprised when she frowned. “Don’t.”

Then she rode off down the road.

Jim poked around a bit after that. Over the weekend he wandered the town, poking his head into stores that he didn’t normally visit and talking to the shop girls. A few of them remembered a cute girl in purple who rode a moped, but didn’t get much further. Actually knowing her name seem to make Jim the town’s resident expert in the Purple Lady. After a few more days he went to City Hall. He checked records for any unfamiliar businesses that might be more on the “private” side of things. There were a few mentions of a gravel pit outside of town that he’d heard about here and there. He’d asked around about that, too. A few of the old-timers had some things to say. Nothing good.

The next time he saw her, there was a van. She was waiting right outside the door to the store with a smile on her face.  

“Thought you were hiding from me.” He smiled back.

“I needed a shovel and thought of you.”

He laughed as he unlocked the door. “Isn’t that sweet.” He swung the door open and took her to the proper aisle. “Let me get everything turned on, and I’ll get you rung up.”

He had turned away for just a moment, and then there was black.

* * *

 

The hood was pulled off his head, and he squinted in the hard light.

“I just want you to know I’m really sorry about this.”

“Pauling?” He tried to make out her form, but all that was in front of him was was a black blur. He heard a click and felt something cold and metallic pressed against his head.

“You seem like a nice enough guy. But I did warn you about the questions.”


	16. The Ties That Bind

His tie is crooked.

Engineer watches as Spy glides into the room, silent as a shadow. As he slowly sips his beer, Spy brushes invisible dust from his suit jacket, and pretends that he doesn’t see him sitting there. The simple fact is, Spy needs to pass by in order to get back to his room and he’s learned from experience that it’s much safer to pass by the Engineer without his cloak up.

Engineers are funny that way, when it comes to Spies.

The Gunslinger casually taps on the neck of the bottle, and they continue to ignore each other. Spy pauses at the Frigidaire to pull out the pitcher of water that is always kept there. New Mexico summers are nothing to laugh at, and more than one mercenary has wound up in the infirmary due to dehydration. A glass is pulled from the cabinets and filled. Spy leans back against the counter and drinks, his Adam’s apple gently bobbing under the fabric of his balaclava.

That one little detail holds Engineer’s attention. It’s so out of place, unlike the Frenchman’s normal put-together appearance. Everything else is all clean lines and refinement, but that tie…

Spy’s eyes flit around, jumping from one thing to another but avoiding the Engineer’s. His fingers grasp the pitcher’s handle, and Engineer gets the idea that they just need something to do. A few more moments pass without anything being said. Eventually Spy returns the pitcher to its proper place and leaves the glass in the sink before leaving the room as quietly as he had entered.

The clock on the wall chimes the hour, and Engineer pulls himself out of the chair. He rinses the bottle and then the glass, just to have everything in its place. He’s got a few more hours of work in front of him to repair a sentry sapped by the RED Spy earlier that day. Before he leaves he takes the pitcher back out and fills it, and as the water flows from the tap he hears the sound of someone else entering the room.

It’s Medic.

His tie is crooked.

 


	17. The Little Boy

Cross faction relationships were prohibited. Your enemy as anything other than an angry face trying to kill you meant that there might be a moment of weakness; a small hesitation that shifted the odds ever so slightly in the other team’s favor. Not that they didn’t happen. But there wasn’t a single mercenary who wasn’t aware of what had happened between the RED Demoman and BLU Soldier.

But some things couldn’t be avoided.

There was no blood tie to the Scout, none at all. But knowing a man since before they owned their first pair of full-length trousers did bring a certain amount of emotional investment. He had seen birthdays, first days of school, and first loves. He had tended skinned knees and taught him how to stand up to the seven older siblings who delighted in tormenting him.

And he had stared down the barrel of his gun to give him his first kill. It was neat, quick and as clean as it could have been with a scattergun.

He couldn’t help but feel a little swell of pride. The little boy was a man.

They rarely met off the field. Rules were rules, after all.

It was a surprise, then, when he saw that flicker of blue one night, lingering just beyond the compound line.

“Mon petit lapin.” He rubbed out the cigarette under his shoe. “You are very far from your den.”

“It’s Ma…”

He felt his heart stop. It was not unexpected. Both of them had simply been waiting, preparing, and then finding that it had made little difference.  

“How long?”

“A week, maybe. Grandma’s with her now.”

“Have you made arrangements?”

A nod. Good. In the morning he would do the same.

The Scout lingered on the other side of the line. It was so odd to look at him now with his guns at his side, yet suddenly reminding him so much of the skinned knees and runny noses of happier times.

Cross faction relationships were prohibited. Rules were rules.

He stepped forward and pulled his little boy close.


	18. Campfire

Demo chuckled in amusement as he watched Pyro dance along the beach, hopping up on the large driftwood logs that had been washed up on the shore and then hopping off to run into one of the tidal pools that had been exposed as the tide receded.

“Memmoh! Marphif!”

The masked mercenary rushed up and thrust a starfish up into the Scotsman’s face. Demo made a face as he got a whiff of the thing, and gently pushed Pyro’s hands away. “Pyro, go put that wee beastie back in its home.”

Pyro made a sound that almost resembled a deflating balloon, but they turned and walked back to the tidal pool, tugging at the starfish as the tiny suction cups on the animal’s arms held it firm. With a firm “Murph!” they finally pulled it free and gingerly lay it back against the rock where they found it, carefully covering it back up in a little blanket of kelp.

They kicked the sand as the slowly walked back to the truck where Engineer and Demo were waiting for them.

It had been the middle of a three week furlough at the 2Fort base, and the two men had noticed that the firestarter had seemed a little down. With Scout, Sniper and Heavy visiting family, Medic absorbed in a series of experiments that everyone knew better than to ask about, Soldier getting up to god knows what with that batty wizard, and Spy off to places unknown, the place had been quiet.

And boring.

Engineer and Demo had been tinkering with some experimental designs when they’d noticed Pyro sitting by themselves in the courtyard with a box of matches. They had lit them one at a time, watching them burn to nothing before striking the next. It had been a sad little sight. So, with nothing more pressing to do, they’d gathered up the little mercenary and decided to go on a roadtrip.

After a lot of driving, many detours at truck stops for breaks and kitschy souvenirs, they’d arrived.

Now Pyro watched as Engineer put the final touches on a textbook Raccoon Scout camp fire before the Texan tossed them a box of matches. “Light ‘er up, Firebug.”

The starfish forgotten, Pyo happily set themselves to setting the logs aflame. While they enjoyed the fire, Demo and Engineer pulled out the hot dogs and fixings that they’d bought at a small grocery store a few hours ago, and set to work on dinner as the sun slowly dipped below the horizon.

As night settled in over them, the three mercenaries sat and enjoyed the warmth of the fire as a cool breeze blew in from the sea. Once the sun had completely set, Demo got up and started digging around in the back of the truck. After a few minutes of searching, he came back with a metal box and set it down in the sand between himself and Pyro.

“Ye wanna have some fun?”

There was a twinkle in his eye as he asked the question, and Engineer chuckled as Pyro nodded enthusiastically.

Opening the box, Pyro peered in to see that it was filled with glass vials. They looked up at Demo, cocking their head in an unspoken question. Demo reached in and pulled out one of the vials.

“Strontium nitrate.” He popped the cork at the top and tapped a small amount of it into his hand. Pyro watched, captivated, as Demo moved with theatrical slowness to extend his hand over the fire before dashing the chemical into the flames.

As soon as it was consumed, the fire surged into a brilliant red. Under their mask, Pyro’s eyes grew wide and they leaned in with an excited “Mmmmmmm!”

It was so pretty!

The flames licked out like the petals of a flower and they hopped down on to their knees to get closer.

“Memmoh, miph meuphible!”

Demo grinned at the reaction as he set the vial back into the box. “Ye think that’s somethin’, but wait until you see this.” He pulled out another vial that had a white powder. “Barium chlorate.” With all the flourish of a sideshow magician, he added the powder to the fire, changing them to a brilliant green.

Pyro clapped their hands as they gave an excited squeal. Demo gave a little bow before turning his attention back to the box. Pyro held their breath, anxiously waiting to see what would be next. Slowly drawing out another vial, Demo turned to the smaller mercenary.

“Hold out yer hand.” He wagged the vial in front of Pyro, the glass eyes following the movement like a moth to flame. Extending their gloved hand, Pyro watched as Demo poured out a small amount of powder. “Copper oxychloride.”

Pyro looked down at their hand, up to Demo and then over at the fire. The flames still flickered with the last hints of green.

“Go ahead.” Demo urged.

Approaching the fire with more hesitation than they could ever remember doing before, they turned their hand as they had seen Demo do, pulling back as soon as the powder dropped. The fire circle bloomed into a ghostly blue glow.

Sitting back on their heels, Pyro sat, captivated by the color. It was beautiful in a way that they had never seen fire before.

Demo returned the vial to the box and closed the lid before sitting back down in the sand. A moment later, they had a lapful of Pyro as the little mercenary threw themselves over to wrap  him in a bear hug.

“Mhnk nhya, Memmoh.”

Demo laughed and patted them on the back, smiling at Engineer from across the fire.

“I reckon this is gonna be a nice little furlough.”

 


	19. Nerdy German Tourist

Clarence wondered how it had come to this as he stared down into the pale yellow piss that the bartender had insisted was beer. There was a time when he’s been someone, part of one of the biggest crime networks on the West Coast, with a name to that was enough to get just about any two-bit punk to roll. Now he found himself scrounging for every last peso and sitting in a what was probably the filthiest dive Tijuana had to offer.

Slowly turning around on the barstool, he looked out at the other refugees from polite society as they wandered in from the boisterous street outside. As the crowd wandered in and out, his ears picked up fragments of conversations in Spanish, English and a smattering of a others. Most of them were the same lowlifes and gutter rats that he saw here every night. 

But every so often he’d get lucky.

Even though it had passed its prime from the days when the Agua Caliente Racetrack brought down the biggest names from Hollywood and every other jet-setter location, Tijuana still held an exotic allure for those looking for some quick and dirty adventure. Most of the time it was some poor sap on their last weekend as a free man before going back to get hitched up stateside. Other times it was a pair of stupid kids looking for a quickie wedding. 

But sometimes he got lucky.

The clueless tourists were the marks he lived for. 

And one just walked into his bar.

Taking a swig of his beer, Clarence sized up the man. Mid- or late-forties easy, judging by the tinge of gray in his hair. He had a camera hanging around his neck and a suitcase in his hand. Dressed in the loudest Hawaiian shirt that he’d ever seen a straw Cuban hat and shorts paired with black socks, this guy was every bit the walking stereotype that guys name Guido were back in New York.

The man walked briskly across the room and sidled up next to Clarence at the bar. Pulling out a small booklet out of his shirt’s breast pocket, the tourist flipped through the pages before waving the bartender over.

“Uno cerveza, por favor.” He asked in the absolute worst accent that Clarence thought he’d ever heard. The bartender just nodded and pulled a glass of the watered down beer setting it down in front of the man, who handed over about three times what was actually owned from a wallet that was stuffed to the brim with cash. Clarence saw the bartender’s eyes widen for a brief moment, but just take the money. 

No one in this shithole would think twice about separating a tourist from their money.

The tourist shoved the wallet back into his pocket, slipping off the stool for a moment to wedge the thick billfold back in. As he got back on, the man turned and looked across the room. 

“Ah, what a bohemian atmosphere. So vibrant, so exotic!”

Clarence couldn’t tell if he was being spoken to or not, but what the hell. He was going to get much closer to this guy by the end of the night, anyway.

“So, you ain’t from around here, are you?”

“Ach, is it that obvious?” The man looked over with a wide grin plastered on his face. “It is my first time in Mexico. Very exciting!”

“Where you visiting from?”

“Germany. Well, I’m in the United States for work, but I had a little vacation time and heard such wonderful things about Tijuana that I just had to make a trip. I’ve heard that a man can simply get lost in everything down here.”

Clarence smirked. “You solo, then?”

The man nodded. “Ja. I’m afraid my coworkers do not quite share the same passion I have for travel.”

Perfect.

“Well,” Clarance sat up and tossed some money on the bar to settle his tab, “I’ve been down here going on ten years. If you need a tour guide, I’m your man. I know all the hot spots.”

He hadn’t thought that grin could get any bigger.

“Really? That would be wonderful! Of course I would insist on compensating you for your trouble.”

“I’m sure we can work something out. Tell you what, my car’s parked behind the bar. How about we blow this dive and I take you someplace with some real nightlife?”

He didn’t wait before giving the man a prod and heading towards the door. The man looked at the beer on the bar, but quickly grabbed his suitcase and trotted after Clarence.

As they left the bar, Clarence turned into the alley and started walking into the darkness. Tossing a glance behind him, he saw the tourist clutching the suitcase to his chest as he looked around the alley. That stupid grin had been replaced with a look of trepidation as they walked further into the alley and away from the crowds.

“The car’s just this way.”

Clarence turned the corner to the back of the bar. There was a single flickering light over the back door, and inside was a staff too smart to come out if they heard any unusual noises.

“I do not see any car.” The tourist looked up and down the narrow road. “Perhaps it has been stolen? Should we contact the police?”

Reaching into his jacket, Clarence grabbed his pistol and pressed it to the back of the man’s head.

“Nah.”

The man stiffened as he felt the cold metal against his skull. 

“Let’s start with that wallet, Fritz. Nice and slow.”

He watched as the man’s hand carefully reached around and pulled the wallet out. He reached out and grabbed it from the trembling hand. Wedging his thumb into the wallet, he took a quick glance and smiled when he realized that there was enough cash to have him sitting pretty for the next month.

“Now the suitcase.”

“Th… that’s just clothes.”

“The suitcase. Or you’re gonna be taking home a lead souvenir in that thick head of yours.”

“It’s locked.”

Clarence rolled his eyes. “Then unlock it.”

The man dipped his fingers into one of the pockets in his shorts and pulled out a small key that he inserted into the lock on the suitcase.

“I ain’t got all day, Fritz.”

Medic slowly opened the suitcase, slipping his hand inside and grasping the grip of the bonesaw.

“Of course, mein Freund. Of course.”

He loved vacation.


	20. The Shirt Off His Back

She sits alone at a small table with a cup of coffee, enjoying the evening’s quiet.

The boys are all gone now and she’s left alone in the apartment. There’s a pile of dirty dishes in the sink from Sunday dinner that she’ll clean up in the morning before she goes to work. Right now all she wants is a hot shower and to climb into bed. The Smissmas season is in full swing and she’s offered to cover Suzie’s shift so that she can go watch her daughter’s school recital. Old Mrs. Draughton did the same for her when she had her boys, after all.

After the shower she dries her hair, giving a little sigh at the appearance of a little more gray than there was last week. She makes a mental note to make an appointment at the salon sometime this week before wrapping her robe around her and walking back to her room.

She closes the bedroom door behind her and hangs the robe on the back of the door. The house had been so full of life earlier and now that they’re gone she feels lonely and just wants to be reminded him. Opening a dresser drawer, she pulls out a man’s shirt.

Nothing about it is out the ordinary, but it is expensive. Knowing him, this shirt may very well be the most expensive thing in the room. It’s a fine cotton fabric that easily slips across her skin as she pulls it on. The French (of course) cuffs fall past her hands, so she rolls up the fabric and slides the sleeves up her arms. 

She supposes she ought to feel a little guilty about taking it from his suitcase the last time he visited, but she honestly can’t bring herself to do it. 

He likely knows. Probably knew before he even walked out the door. It’s one of his most irritating and endearing qualities.

When he’s here she wears his shirts as well. It always makes him smile to find her stretched out on the bed in them, letting it slip open just so, to let him see a hint of her body underneath. But tonight she fastens a few of the buttons, holding the shirt securely around her, like a hug.

She crawls into bed and sets her alarm, feeling sleep creep up on her as soon as her head hits the pillow. As she curls up, she catches the faint hint of the cologne that lingers on the collar and smiles.

The next morning she wakes up before her alarm and prepares for the day. The shirt is returned to its special place before making the bed and getting dressed. As she makes some toast, she ignores the dishes that are still in the sink. They’ll keep until evening.

She opens the closet to pull out her coat and exits the apartment, locking the door behind her. 

The day is a blur as she helps one customer after another. Women are coming in to find the perfect dress for upcoming holiday parties, and men are shopping for their loved ones. There’s a groom-to-be hunting for the perfect ring for a Smissmas proposal followed by a charming older couple; the husband urging his bride to quit looking at the price tags and just pick what she wants because they’ve worked all their lives and now should enjoy it. 

She smiles at him. The man doesn’t have the sophistication of hers, but the sentiment is the same.

After work she rides the T back to her neighborhoods and stops by the deli to buy a quick dinner. It will let her ignore those dishes for a little longer.

As she enters the apartment building, she stops by her mailbox and pulls out the day’s delivery. Bills to be paid, a catalog, and a red envelope. She takes the stairs two at a time, quickly unlocking her door and dumping everything on hall table as she lets herself fall onto the sofa with the envelope.

The stamp is from some country she’s never heard of, but there is no mistaking the flourish on the handwriting. She runs her fingers over the flap, wanting to prolong the moment as long as she can, before she finally slides a nail under and slits it open.

_Ma Petit Chou-fleur,_

_It seems that your situation is more dire than you had led me to believe since you have been forced to abscond with one of my shirts. Of course, Boston is a cold place, and I am certain that even this early in winter there is a bite in the air. I will be there soon, mon amore, and I will ensure that you are wrapped in something much warmer than cotton._

_-RS_

She looks at the postmark and sees that it was sent a week ago. Her man never makes her wait long. Her heart feels lighter than it has in months, and she lingers with the letter for a time before eventually she making herself get up to grab the food from the deli to put in the fridge. As she walks into the kitchen, she notices something different.

The dishes are done. 

She smiles, and rushes to the bedroom.


	21. Bedtime Story

Engineer watched as Pyro crouched in front of his bookshelf, carefully considering the evening’s reading. Their head was slightly tilted to get a better view of the titles as they lightly ran their fingers across the spines. Finally, they smiled and pulled off a small book with a well-worn cover and stood up to hand it to Engineer.

“The House on the Ciff, huh?” 

“Yeah.” Pyro’s grin got bigger as they started pulling Engineer back toward their bed, crawling on and pulling the blankets up over them as they settled back against the pillows. Engineer settled down next to them, kicked off his slippers and joined Pyro under the blankets.

Engineer looked down at the worn cover in his hand. It was a classic Hardy Boys mystery, one that he had been given by his dad when he was a little boy. He remembered nights with the covers pulled up over his head to hide the flashlight he snuck in so that he could finish it. For some reason he’d never gotten rid of it, even when he had given up so many other things from his childhood.

And seeing Pyro snuggled up next to him, he was glad he hadn’t.

Even with the gas mask still halfway on, the firestarter looked adorable in a pair of red and white striped pajamas. Pulling his old quilt over the two of them, he started to read.

Pyro let out a happy sigh as they relaxed against Engineer, their eyelids drooping as they let themselves be lulled into a wonderful half-sleep by the gentle cadence of Engineer’s voice. Their mask was pulled partway up over their nose, and they caught the scent of Engineer’s aftershave. It was a comforting smell, sometimes punctuated by oil if Engineer had a sudden flash of inspiration and had dashed off to his workshop.

Engineer always smelled like home. 

They felt an arm wrap around behind their shoulders as Engineer settled down into a more comfortable position, so they shifted up a bit to rest their head against his arm. At some point they realized that they didn’t hear Engineer’s voice anymore. When they propped themselves up on their elbow, they saw that the book had fallen loosely on Engie’s chest. His eyes were closed and Pyro heard a soft snore.

Smiling, they carefully picked up the book and set it on the nightstand. Turning off the light, they pulled the mask off the rest of the way before laying back down and pulling the quilt up to their chin. With a contented sigh, they closed their eyes and followed Engineer into sleep.


	22. Snow Day

Scout brought his hands up to his mouth, blowing into them to start to get some circulation back. After giving them a quick rub, he shoved them back into the pockets of his coat. He glared at the red earth in front of him, kicking the dirt as if it had just insulted his mother. Letting out a huff, he watched as his breath turned into a cloud in front of him.

From across the walkway, Pyro watched as the puff of breath slowly disappeared in front of them. Scout heard a few raspy noises, and smirked as he watched the other mercenary try mimic him through the mask’s filter.

“Don’t think that’s gonna work, pal.” 

Glassy eyes looked at him, and Scout could almost imagine the look of “but whyyyyy?” behind the smokey lenses.

The two mercenaries were stationed at one of the out buildings of 2Fort to take their turn to keep an eye out for RED. There had been a few too many sorties made by the opposing team in the past few days, and Soldier had demanded watches around the clock. 

In the middle of January.

The arid desert air was chilling Scout to the bone. Somehow the two of them had pulled the night shift. It was cold during the day, but at night the temperatures plunged to where Heavy was starting to consider long sleeves. Pyro didn’t seem too bothered by it, but they were insulated in an asbestos suit and a flame thrower. Inside the hut was a small oil heater, but Scout could only make short trips inside to defrost if he wanted to keep an eye out for the other team. If anything slipped through, it was on him. You just didn’t get mad at Pyro.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if there was snow.” 

Pyro looked over at him from their position, head cocked to the side in question. 

“Hudda?”

“Snow, ya know? If you’re gonna be cold, you might as well have some snow. It feels weird being this cold and still have it look like… this.” Scout rubbed his toe in the dusty ground. “Back in Boston we’d probably have a couple of feet by now. I used to meet up with some of the guys in the Public Garden and make snowmen in dirty poses. Heh. Good times.”

“Muphuc.”

Scout’s eyes darted to the other mercenary. “I’m not homesick!”

Pyro’s head tilted in the other direction, their off-hand on their hip in a posture that very much said that they weren’t buying what Scout was selling.

“So maybe I miss being someplace that has a real winter.” Scout crossed his arms and glared back at Pyro. “What of it?”

“Muphin.”

“Nothin’, right.” Scout muttered as he turned to walk into the hut. Crouching next to the heater, he slowly felt warmth coming back into his toes. Sneakers really weren’t the ideal cold weather footwear. Behind him he heard the clomp of Pyro’s boots, and they dropped down beside them.

“Hurbee.”

Scout looked over. “Nah, you don’t have to be sorry. You’re probably right. It’s something about the time of year, I think. I miss havin’ snow.”

Pyro set down their axe and sat down on the floor.

“Oh, no. Not story time, buddy.” Scout grinned as he stood back up. “We let those RED losers past on our watch and Calamity Jane Doe is gonna have our hides.”

“Mureeaph?”

“Why, you never seen snow before or somethin’?”

Pyro shook their head.

Scratching his head, Scout wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. “Like never?”

They shook their head again.

“Uh, well, it’s white. And cold, and usually kinda wet.” Scout paused, not entirely sure if Pyro was pulling his leg or not. With only the blank eyes of the gas mask, it was sometimes hard to tell.

But Pyro just kept looking at him. 

So he kept going. “When I was little, I’d always love wakin’ up and seein’ all this white on the windowsill. It’d have to be a lot before they’d cancel school or anythin’, but when it happened, man, almost better than Smissmas.” A grin crossed his face as he thought about the sight of soft, fluffy snow piling up outside. “Ma would mix up a big ol’ pot of cream of wheat and then send us out to play in the street. We’d build forts and have snowball fights until dinner time.”

“Muf hur muhn?”

“Sure it was fun!” Scout laughed. “I remember this one time, oh man it was great! So my brother, the one I told you about last week, he gets this idea that he’s gonna get the rest of us with this HUGE pile of snow that was up on the fire escape. He’s in the apartment with two of his buddies, and they climb out onto the fire escape. Now this thing is COVERED in snow, three feet or so. So my other brother, the one who did that thing, sees him and gets the rest of us together and we’re gonna turn the tables. So what do we do?”

Pyro leaned forward, and Scout could imagine the eyes open wide behind the mask.

“Four of us run out in the alley, ya’ know, drawin’ attention. The other three dig up this old broom and sneak up under it. They wait until big brother and his two boys are all the way out on the escape and workin’ to pile up a bunch of snow. They use the broom, knock the ladder down, and BAM! That rickety old thing sends snow down from five stories on top of ‘em! Looked like we had three snowmen up there!”

Scout laughed at the memory, the sight of his brother buried in snow, his ma having to dig them out while leaning out the window and then giving the rest of them hell for the rest of the night. 

Totally worth it.

“Heh. Yeah. There’s furlough in a couple of weeks. Maybe I’ll go back instead of hangin’ around here.”

“Muh huh huh?”

The question was quiet and tentative.

“Can you come?”

Pyro looked up at them from the floor. The mask reflected the single light bulb that lit the hut, making the lenses look more like large eyes than normal. Scout paused and thought about it. He wasn’t sure what he’d say to his ma if he brought an asbestos suited and masked mercenary back with him.

Of course, on the other hand, it wasn’t like she could say anything. After all, it wasn’t like he hadn’t pulled those pictures off of RED Spy’s corpse last week.

“Sure, buddy. You can come.”


End file.
